


Beer and Sympathy

by rallamajoop



Series: Blame it on the booze [1]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics)
Genre: Chapter Related, Drunken hate sex, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-<i>Cable & Deadpool</i>. In the aftermath of their meeting of <i>Deadpool Classic</i> #22, Cable and Deadpool make an attempt to drown their sorrows, and one thing leads to another. (Or, the one about that time Cable and Deadpool had drunken hate-sex, way back before they became friends.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer and Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Beer and Sympathy 啤酒与同情](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128860) by [melnakuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melnakuru/pseuds/melnakuru), [rallamajoop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop)



> **Warnings:** Contains Cable from his pre-Cable  & Deadpool days, and other associated nastiness.
> 
> **Author's notes:** (mostly for the benefit of those who haven't read Deadpool #22) Being set well before _Cable & Deadpool_ #1 ever happened, this story will probably not make a whole lot of sense without context – that context being that it takes place immediately after that time our heroes ran into each other back in issue #22 of the classic Joe Kelly _Deadpool_ series. This was an encounter that mattered - and only more so in retrospect - as it marks the first time they ever found themselves unexpectedly making a real connection as anything other than casual enemies. The issue reads much better as part of the ongoing story and I cannot possibly recommend Joe Kelly's _Deadpool_ run highly enough – even better, it's all been re-released recently in Deadpool Classic volumes #2-5, and if I can convince even one of you to rush out and buy the whole thing right now then my work here is done (after all, the fic will still be right here when you get back). But for those of you without that much money to burn on a whim, you can probably find the chapter online somewhere or, indeed, the whole run ([*coughhack*](http://isohunt.com/torrent_details/45508004/deadpool+collection?tab=summary)), and failing even that, here's a quick summary of what you need to know: (spoiler text, highlight to read)
> 
> In preceding issues, Deadpool was contacted by the intergalactic law firm LL&L with the story that he was destined to become a hero fabled to usher in a new era of peace and enlightenment. Deadpool, naturally, takes a lot of convincing before he's ready to listen to all this cock-and-bull, but since he does so want to be a real hero, and since he has already been put through several kinds of hell over the course of the series, he eventually agrees to hear them out. However, in this issue, he finds out the specifics of his heroic destiny involve murdering a monster called the Tiamat which, left to its own devices, will prevent the peace-bringing messiah from ever reaching earth. Having had the impression he was up for something far more noble than more killing, Deadpool takes this badly. He tries talking it out with Blind Al, but she thinks he's being a wuss. Depressed, he goes looking for Siryn (his 'it's-complicated' at the time). He finds Cable instead, who had only recently left X-Force himself and who's none too pleased to find Deadpool snooping around the younger members of his team. They fight; Wade throws out some of the details about his 'destiny' to rile Cable up, and his remarks hit home. Having his own firm opinions on the subject of destiny, Cable does not take this well, particularly since – as he blurts out right in the middle of all this – he's not going to live long enough to fulfill his own. We learn that thanks to recent events in his own title, Cable has lost his telekinesis, which means his TO is slowly killing him. On that awkward note the fight comes to an end, and they talk for a little longer on the subject of their roles as 'nature's garbage men' ("No-one thanks the garbage men, Wilson, it's part of the job, but everyone still needs us. Without us, the world drowns."). By the time they part, they've both managed to give the other some much-needed perspective, and when Deadpool's LL&L contact finds him next, he's put all his doubts behind him and he's ready to go.
> 
> This is the fic I wrote because with ammunition like that in their backstory, someone _had_ to take the next logical step. But also because I couldn't read that line in C &DP #6 where Deadpool tells Cyclops he "knows Nate better than you do" without thinking, _really, since when? They've only ever met three times on page before this; was there more going on off-screen somewhere that we never saw?_ I like to think, in short, that this is something that could fit into the gaps in their backstory without a single established canon fact needing revision.

It was amazing what could seem like a good idea when you weren't expecting to live long enough to regret it—or at worst, not long enough to regret it very seriously. A man could drive himself mad just finding ways to distract himself from the inevitable.  
  
Case in point, there was very little madder _or_ moredistracting than Deadpool. Doubly so when it was Deadpool in combination with large quantities of alcohol.  
  
It should have been easier to blame his sudden urge to get thoroughly drunk on something trivial, like having just fought a man wearing a beer box on his head, but the truth was that his conversation with Deadpool had dredged up so much baggage from the outer depths of his awareness that he'd come out in a state of exhaustion that would usually take hours of combat rather than mere minutes, emotionally worn to the bone. Even the resolution (or resignation, as it seemed, the more maudlin he got) had left him badly in need of a drink.  
  
In point of fact, it had left them both in bad need of a drink. Which had somehow led to him sitting at the table in the kitchen of his nearest safe house, making his way through more beer than he had any recollection of buying, while sitting beside one of the few men in the world who could hardly think less of him for any stupid things he did under the influence of far too much alcohol.  
  
He could hardly say spending time with someone he hated as thoroughly as Deadpool put his problems in perspective. At best, it simply put a loud, attention-grabbing obstacle between him and a perspective he wasn't ready to deal with tonight. At least Deadpool had finally given up trying to cover his face after the third time the makeshift bandages came loose. Cable didn't much care whether he hid it or not, but seeing him panic about it had been getting painful.  
  
"...all I'm saying is, would be nice just to wake up one morning and not scare the fuck out of myself looking in the bathroom mirror," Deadpool was grumbling. "Wouldn't be so bad if the artists could just pick one look and stick with it, but I don't even know whether I'm gonna be million-year-old-zombie-guy, burn-victim-guy, hey-who-deflated-The-Thing-guy... I mean—I mean—do _you_ wake up in the morning and...?" He turned to Cable, probably for emphasis, and trailed off, frowning. "Oh. Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to there for a moment."  
  
Wonder of wonders, under the influence of alcohol, Wade Wilson managed to be even _less_ coherent than usual.  
  
"Little comfort as this may be, Wilson," said Cable, "but I couldn't possibly hate your face _nearly_ as much as I hate the rest of you."  
  
"Y'know, that might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me," said Deadpool, sounding maudlin.  
  
Cable experienced a moment of alcohol-fuelled sympathy and passed him another beer.  
  
There were a lot of empty beer bottles spread over the table now. He was fairly sure most of them weren't his. He took note of the rate Deadpool was getting through his latest bottle and frowned.  
  
"How many have you had?"  
  
"How many have _you_ had, old guy?" Wilson countered. "Pretty sure youdon't have a healing factor boosting _your_ liver."  
  
"Most of my liver is techno-organic." Odds were that all of it would be by the end of the evening, the way this was going. "Alcohol doesn't slow it down."  
  
For some reason, Deadpool seemed to find this enormously funny.  
  
"What?" said Cable.  
  
"That is just so _fucking_ you. Look out, barmen, here comes TECHNO-MAN, the Swiss Army Cyborg with a deus ex TO-machina for every occasion! Need to see in the dark? Not a problem when you just so happen to have had this handy TO eye installed! Door needs opening? Lock pick hidden in your arm! Need to win a Mario Cart tournament? You can just plug in your TO-arm and interface right with the box! I'm telling you, Nate, your writers need new material so bad it _hurts.“_  
  
For whatever reason, Deadpool decided to conclude the sentiment by getting to his feet—a little too quickly, as there was now enough alcohol in his system to prevent his feet catching up with this plan until slightly too late. He teetered dangerously, and Cable only narrowly grabbed him by the arm in time to stop him staggering into the table hard enough to knock everything on it over.  
  
The world swayed in front of Cable's vision for a few seconds. Getting up quickly hadn't been much wiser for someone in his own state than it had been for Deadpool. It was rapidly becoming less clear just who was holding up who in this arrangement. Letting go would probably be an even worse idea.  
  
Deadpool hadn't protested being grabbed like that, presumably for similar reasons, and was staring up at Cable's face as if he had no idea how the other man had gotten there and couldn't wait to see what exciting thing he was going to do next. "Huh," he muttered sounding a little dizzy, "You're much better looking from this angle. I didn't realise we had an artist who cared about close-ups today, they've done you all this _detail_..."  
  
The idiot had to be even more drunk than he'd realised.  
  
Cable groped for a suitable comeback. The best he managed was, "Unfortunately, you're no less annoying."  
  
"Hey, don't be like that!" Deadpool protested. "Some of my best skills only apply close up."  
  
Being annoying _was_ a skill by Deadpool's standards. Absolutely his best one. " _Skills_ ," Cable echoed, skeptically.  
  
"People don't hire me for charming personality or my pretty face, do they? I got all _kindsa_ skills!"  
  
"So was it grappling, disembowelling or _self-pleasuring_ you had in mind?"  
  
Deadpool snickered. "Why not all three? But you're underestimating me if you think I'm only good for solo work."  
  
Despite the klaxon-volume warning implicit in that last statement, what happened next was so unexpected—and Cable so far into the pleasant land that the world became when seen through the haze of too many beers—that it took half a minute before he registered that the pressure he was experiencing on the front of his pants was _Deadpool's hand_. Whatever alcohol had done to Wilson's balance, it had left his dexterity disarmingly intact. The hand wasn't rubbing so much as it was _exploring_ , feeling the outline of him through his pants, tracing top to bottom and then lightly massaging its way back up. Purely in the name of scientific interest and the proving of my point back there, nothing sexual about this and we'll thank you to get your mind out of the gutter, my good sir.  
  
Mother Askani, even Deadpool's _hand_ could communicate the same level of idiotic indiscretion as the rest of him.  
  
For some reason, instead of punching Deadpool in the head like any sane man would have done twenty-nine seconds ago, Cable said, "Wilson, what do you think you're doing?"  
  
There was perfectly reasonable logic behind this course of action. Sudden movements were hardly wise when he was so unsteady that one punch could end with them both lying on the floor on a bed of broken beer bottles, especially when Wilson had a hand in position to do him real and painful damage, even by accident. The only snag in that chain of reasoning was that the thirty seconds it had taken him to come to terms with what was going on right under his belt were at least fifteen seconds too long to leave Cable with any space to deny that he was getting hard _._  
  
"Uh, giving you a hand job?" Deadpool sounded even less certain how this came about than Cable. "Ayup, that's totally Cable Junior I'm groping down there, huh? I'm thinking," he added, "I might have had a few too many."  
  
Cable found himself putting one hand on the table for support—his legs didn't seem up to the task all of a sudden. Wilson's surprised revelation about which skill he was demonstrating had not slowed him down. If anything, the hand was only getting bolder.  
  
"Um. Don't take this the wrong way," Wilson went on, sounding sheepish, "but I always used to think those massive Liefeld-guns were you compensating for something. So... guess I was wrong, huh? Just give me the heads up here—roughly how much longer do I have before you come to your senses and throw me out a window?"  
  
"Don't. Stop," said someone, using Cable's voice.  
  
"...didn't quite catch that?"  
  
"Don't. You dare. Stop," Cable repeated.  
  
There was a short, awkward silence.  
  
"Or I _will_ put you through the window," he clarified.  
  
"Oh good," said Deadpool, sounding relieved. "Now that's the Nathan we all know and can't always avoid. For a sec there I thought I might've run afoul of one of your weirder clones."  
  
The important thing was not Deadpool's random babbling. The important thing was that after only a moment's hesitation, his hand was moving again, now with a curious sort of purpose. Cable let his head fall forward, tuning out everything but the sensation. He let go of Deadpool's arm in favour of gripping the table with both hands, caging Wilson between them. Arm freed, Deadpool wasted no time getting Cable's pants open and drawing him out.  
  
Cable groaned aloud when Wilson's hand closed around his cock—flesh to flesh, _much_ better than all that had come before it.  
  
"Gotta say, Nate—never figured you for being the type," said Deadpool, after another couple of minutes of not having been put through any windows.  
  
"You're the one who started this."  
  
"Yeah, but I'm that wacky old Deadpool! I'm supposed to do dumb crap like feeling up my worst enemy in his own kitchen. You..."  
  
"Have had too much to drink," Cable said firmly. Any other possible reason why he was letting Wilson do this was more than he was willing to contemplate. He couldn't even claim it was all that long since he'd last had sex.  
  
Deadpool shrugged, momentarily interrupting the rhythm of his hands. "Never figured you for a two beer queer either."  
  
Cable frowned. There was a long conversation to be had about that one, revolving around the stupidity of the assumption that Deadpool's _gender_ had any place on a list of his least appealing features when it had his personality to compete with as a first—not to mention that face somewhere down the line—with a side tangent about the asinine nature of societal attitudes to gender preferences in this century, but Cable had neither the concentration nor the investment to make it worth the bother. "No-one can cling to the fringes of an issue like you can, Wilson."  
  
"Would you rather I focused on the part where _you,_ holier-than-Jesus saviour from the time of Duck Rogers, are letting _me_ , brain damaged amoral merc from the gutter, jerk you off in your own kitchen?"  
  
"I would rather you _shut up_ and got on with it."  
  
"Really know how to make a guy feel special, don't ya, Nate?" grumbled Deadpool. "And they say romance is dead."  
  
Cable looked up, intending to give him a piece of his mind. Instead caught Deadpool's eye, grabbed his chin and kissed him hard, all teeth and tongue and the angriest kind of need.  
  
"If you'd wanted romance, you'd have come on to someone who'd never sent you home in a box," he growled against Deadpool's lips when he had to stop for breath, and kissed him again before he could respond.  
  
If a minor question of safety had been ample reason not to punch Wilson when he should have, then making the bastard _shut up_ was barely excuse for this, but shut up he did, needing no encouragement to put that eager tongue to better use. The kiss barely stopped short of turning into a war, but neither of them were quite so far gone as to waste their effort fighting over control. Wilson tasted like beer and little else Cable could identify, but for all that he had a face like a road accident and talked liked he didn't know how to stop, it was something more than Cable had been prepared for to curl his tongue past those lips and discover how disarmingly _normal_ he felt from the inside. But the best part by far was the victory of feeling all Wilson's veneer of nonchalance falling apart under his touch, kissing back with no second thoughts.  
  
With a sweep of his hand Cable had the table cleared—bottles, empty or otherwise rolling every which way and falling to the floor in an orchestra of glass on tile, all earlier reservations about the mess long since forgotten. What mattered was that now there was space to spread Deadpool down backwards over the table, to press his weight down over him and hold him there, body against body, laid out for his enjoyment.  
  
He'd expected some token resistance—protests about Wilson's supposed heterosexuality at the very least, if not to be fought all the way down, but the worst he got was a few pointed wiggles, as if to say 'while I am indeed very bendy, my spine doesn't like doing that for very long and if you let me scoot a few inches up the table I will be so much more comfortable'. Small mystery why—Wilson was half-hard from the first moment Cable ground angrily down against him. Within a few thrusts, there was no more half about it, the thin layer of fabric between them the next best thing to skin contact. It was more satisfying than it had any right to be—making Wilson as desperate for this as he was the best imaginable revenge.  
  
"...this is really not where I was expecting this to take us," said Wilson when Cable was next forced to come up for breath—Deadpool, apparently, didn't need to breathe, or could breathe and talk at the same time. It would explain a lot.  
  
"You should have thought of that before you started groping me," Cable snapped. If it might not be strictly fair to blame this whole burst of insanity on Deadpool, it was an outlet he was hanging on to.  
  
"It's so cute how you think I'm the kind of guy who thinks stuff through," said Wilson.  
  
"Get your pants off," Cable instructed.  
  
"...what?"  
  
"I thought you weren't thinking these things through."  
  
"Okay, okay, _yeesh_ ," Deadpool muttered. "Anyone ever tell you you're really pushy when you're pissed?"  
  
Anger or alcohol—he could mean either and quite possibly both. "You'd be amazed how rarely this situation comes up."  
  
"Yeah, okay, so for the record then: _you're really pushy when you're pissed,_ " said Deadpool, wriggling out of his pants.  
  
It wasn't a point worth arguing; Cable stepped back to let him get on with it. There was an aging bottle of olive oil at the back of a cupboard, if he could just remember which one...  
  
 _(It would have been the work of a second to fetch it if only his telekinesis had been working.)_  
  
He pushed the thought down and concentrated on finding the right cupboard. Deadpool was still struggling with his pants when he got back. Cable helped him finish the job and tossed them on to the counter behind him.  
  
"Done this before?" It came out more of an insult than an expression of concern, and Deadpool clearly took it as such. He glared back, likely caught between the options of admitting to his own inexperience or owning up to having voluntarily been on the receiving end of an encounter like this in the past. Lose-lose.  
  
"I'll make you a deal: if I promise never to tell anyone you fucked me over your kitchen table," he said instead, "you'll promise never to tell anyone I let you, right?"  
  
Little risk of either of them breaking that one. "You have my word." If he was going to be like that, Cable was going to take it as reason to assume his healing factor could handle anything he wasn't prepared for. It was entirely within Deadpool's means to correct him if he overstepped.  
  
The oil stung a little on first contact with his sensitised flesh, but the sensation faded so quickly it might have been his imagination. More he dribbled liberally between the cheeks of Wilson's arse, making him shiver. Cable swallowed the last of his better judgement, stepped in between Wilson's legs, and thrust himself inside, slow. Wilson was almost painfully tight—if he had done this before (and Cable found it unlikely he'd have agreed to this if he hadn't) it couldn't have been recent. Cable edged himself further in tiny increments, the most delicious kind of torture as Deadpool's body closed over him. It could have been twice as bad and Cable would probably have gone on with it anyway; this had started as much from spite as desire and might as well end that way. It would get better once they'd both had the chance to get used to it.  
  
So it was almost insulting that Wilson seemed to be having the less trouble with it of the two of them.  
  
With a grunt, Cable finally made it full length inside. He paused to catch his breath.  
  
"Oh fuck," Wilson muttered. "You so weren't compensating for _anything.“_  
  
"You'd rather I were?" He should have taken time to prepare him properly; this had to be even more uncomfortable for Wilson than it was for him.  
  
 _“Fuck,_ no. Are you gonna get moving with the crazy drunken sex thing back there or what?"  
  
There was too much challenge in those words to ignore. Cable drew himself out, hardly wincing, and thrust back in with everything he had, not caring one whit for who it might hurt.  
  
" _Uhhhh._ " Wilson moaned and arched into the thrust. That wasn't pain, he'd _liked_ it. "Uh. I mean..."  
  
He'd liked it a _lot_. And now he was about to try to pretend otherwise.  
  
Another quick thrust ensured Cable never found out what he 'meant'.  
  
"Shouldn't be surprised you'd be desperate for this," he muttered. Not all the oil in the bottle could compensate for the sheer pressure of Wilson's body, but he was loosening quickly. Cable could easily last as long as that took. He'd never have imagined the way Wilson surged beneath him with every move he made, not that it ought to mean much when he'd never have imagined this to begin with, but after so many encounters with Deadpool's sorry excuse for wit, to be in a position to have this kind of leverage over the man... that certainly had its own rewards. The next thrust made his whole body quake.  
  
"Have I—nnngh—have I told you how—mmm-much I h-hate you today?" Deadpool stuttered back, not very convincingly.  
  
"The night's still young. You can tell me all about it."  
  
"Ahhh... you just like... being able to make me... make me... what was I... uhhhh..."  
  
Cable did. Too much beer and hours of Deadpool's company had hardly taken the edge off his anger at the world for giving him such a raw deal, his anger at Wilson for being the one to force him to face it, his anger at Wilson for _existing_ , for making him need something he'd regret for the rest of what life he had left, for being so damnably _willing_ that it was easier to fall into this than to fight it. Every sentence Wilson lost gave him a kind of dark satisfaction that was as unfamiliar as it was intoxicating.  
  
Since his twenties Cable had the kind of musculature that few bodies not tasked with adapting to support techno-organics ever even achieved, and the metal ensured he weighed nearly as much again as any other man his size. Where he'd grown up his physical stature had been a boon more often than not, but to this day he often didn't know his own strength. He'd never had a lover—male or female—he hadn't had to hold back with at least a little, and he'd rarely dared to test his limits. Yet Wilson took everything he had without a thought, and came back and begged for more. He might've been designed just for this.  
  
It wasn't long before he had Deadpool folded nearly in half, his knees slung over Cable's shoulders. The legs of the table screeched over the floor with every other thrust, never quite loud enough to drown out the noises Deadpool was making—the ones Cable was trying not to hear, little cries of _'yeah'_ , and _'ooh'_ , and _'right there'_. He was ready to come, was well past any desire to draw this out,  
didn't care who outlasted who, but even with the flood of sensation that hit him every time he moved the edge he was seeking was always that little bit too far away.  
  
There was plenty of reason to want this over with quickly, not least of all that if this went on too long, Wilson was bound to find his tongue again.  
  
"If I catch you doing the Liefeld-face when you come," Wilson managed, "Imma never let you live it down."  
  
"You'd never dare tell anyone," said Cable, driving into him so hard he ought to feel it in his throat. "And I told you to _shut up_."  
  
This didn't achieve the desired effect. "Why don't ya _make me,_ ferret-face?"  
  
Cable glared down at him, struck by the surprisingly vivid image of what it would be like to fuck Deadpool's mouth, forcing himself all the way back into the heat of his throat while Wilson's hands twitched feverishly over his hips with every thrust. He imagined tying Wilson down and gagging him; leaving him like that, half-hard and begging for it until he'd learned some common courtesy. It would probably take _days_.  
  
In the real world, what he did was to wrap the metal of his left hand around Wilson's cock and tug, hard as the dare in Wilson's voice, and heard whatever insult he'd been readying turn into a groan that was almost a scream. He did it again, timing his hand right on the end of a vicious thrust into Wilson's body, and the noise ended in a gurgle. A few more tugs were all it took before Wilson was coming around him, in a full-body shudder that went right to the tips of his fingers and toes, on and on and on.  
  
Cable kept moving all the way through it, even as Wade's wild thrashing almost ruined his balance, and that was what it finally took to bring the edge in sight. He came at last, so hard they could have broken the table in two and it would have been minutes before he'd noticed, gritting his teeth over any name that might otherwise escape.  
  
The table survived, but it must have been a near thing.  
  
The high faded to leave Cable feeling more sober than he was entirely prepared for. Not sober enough to regret this properly yet, but there'd be ample opportunity for that yet. Glass crunched under his feet as he pulled himself back out of Deadpool's body, and he spared a wince for the state of the kitchen floor. Cleaning up could wait until after he'd had a shower, and maybe slept for a couple of days. On the table, Deadpool sat up and edged back until he had his balance with his knees hanging over the edge.  
  
The task of catching their respective breaths was a pretty good excuse to avoid looking each other in the eye for a while. Eventually, Cable gave into the inevitable and tossed Deadpool his pants and a roll of paper towels off the bench.  
  
"Okay, _that..._ did not completely suck, and by that I mean mostly the part with the beer," said Deadpool, sounding distracted and less than convincing. "So that's the pleasantries over with. I'd better clear out before this gets really awkward, huh?"  
  
This was slightly more inhospitality than even Cable was in the mood for. "There's a couch. Stay if you prefer. But I'd recommend being gone before I find you here tomorrow morning. Watch the floor when you get up."  
  
"Yeah, don't worry about that, I got that breakfast meeting with _destiny_ to get to. Wouldn't want to disappoint her," said Wade, not unbitterly.  
  
"Good luck with that," said Cable, though he did bite his tongue over _you'll need it._ That much delivered, he turned and stalked out of the kitchen. He did a reasonably good job of _not_ wondering whether any noise he heard was Deadpool moving around downstairs as he showered, fast as he could get the job done under water as hot as he could bear, and fell into bed.  
  
True to his word, Deadpool was gone before Cable was up the next morning. So were any remaining unbroken beer bottles, though it was probably at least an odds-on bet whether the two were connected.  
  
He didn't think about it again. Hardly at all, really.


End file.
